


Undercover

by Fragged



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, M/M, Pre-Slash, touch issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:24:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6195025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fragged/pseuds/Fragged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>'Undercover,'</i> O'Neill had said. <i>'Best chance at catching Patel.'</i></p>
<p>He'd conveniently forgotten to mention that Rush would be working with Young. He'd even more conveniently forgotten to mention that they'd be posing as a couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undercover

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be one of those funny, fluffy romcom-type deals, but Rush and Young didn't want to play along :/   
> I'm not really sure what this is, now... But anyway: detective AU!

He's going to shoot something. Or someone. Soon.

Honestly, never before has Rush agreed with Sartre more. Hell _is_ other people. Or, more accurately, other _person_. One person in particular. 

“Christ, Rush, if you get any tenser you'll snap your spine in half,” Young says gruffly, after another botched attempt. 

“If you hadn't noticed yet, this is not exactly my idea of fun,” Rush snaps out through gritted teeth. Fucking O'Neill must be laughing his head off right this minute. 

_'Undercover,'_ O'Neill had said. _'Best chance at catching Patel.'_

He'd conveniently forgotten to mention that Rush would be working with Young. He'd even more conveniently forgotten to mention that they'd be posing as a couple. It sounds like the plot of the terrible type of 'comedic' drivel Rush purposefully avoids in his own free time. 

_'Come on, stop making that face at me,'_ Greer had said, almost jovially, after Rush had reamed him out for putting him in this position in the first place. If Greer hadn't been the one to question Patel three weeks earlier, when they'd had him in custody before being forced to let him go again, _he_ could have gone undercover with Young. Hell, with Rush, even. That'd be preferable to _this_. Not that it was really Greer's fault he had been sent to question Patel, and it was hardly as if anyone could've predicted things turning out this way, but in that moment Rush didn't care. It had felt better to be upset, loudly, justified or not. Greer hadn't seemed too bothered by Rush's outburst, anyway. _'It's undercover work,'_ he'd said with a wink. _'Who knows, you might even have fun.'_

Fun my arse, Rush thinks angrily. This is fucking torture. 

“Oh, this isn't _fun_ enough for you?” Young crosses his arms and Rush just wants to hit him. Hard. He has no idea why, but from the moment he'd met Young there had been sparks between them. Not good sparks; angry sparks. Cats-and-dogs kind of sparks. The man just rubs him the wrong way, and at least on that they seem to agree, because Young clearly finds him just as fucking annoying as Rush does him. “In case _you_ hadn't noticed, this isn't about fun, Rush. This might be our only – our last – chance with Patel, and if you keep twitching every time I get within two feet of you you're going to give us away before we even set foot in the building. So suck it up and stop whining.” 

And goddamnit, it's not like Young doesn't have a point. Rush is perfectly aware that his knee-jerk reactions to Young's proximity aren't helpful – it's embarrassing enough that he can't seem to stop flinching no matter how hard he tries – but can the man not be such a fucking prick about it for three seconds? 

“Wow, with that kind of bedside manner it's a wonder your wife left you,” Rush sneers, and he knows he's crossed the line the moment the words are out of his mouth. Shit. 

Despite all the electric irritation between them there are certain topics they do not touch. Gloria's death. Young's ex-wife. The fuck-up with the Raymond case that nearly cost Rush his job. The very ill-advised tryst between Young and officer Johansen and the subsequent unpleasant break-up. Somehow they've both sensed never to go there, never to really aim for the jugular, because... well, because. 

Young's eyes widen like Rush just slapped him, and then they narrow into angry slits. His lips press together as if he's trying to hold in some choice words of his own, and for a quick second Rush wonders if he is going to get punched. Then Young says, "Fuck you, Rush," and abruptly turns on his heel and stalks out of the tiny office. 

Rush feels his heart thrum a rapid beat against his ribcage and slumps back against the desk as he rubs at his forehead. Fuck. That went even worse than he'd anticipated. 

He doesn't know why it's such a big deal. He's not homophobic. It's just work. He doesn't understand why the thought of Young's arm on the small of his back, of Young's hand trailing over his jaw, of Young's lips on his own... why it makes cold sweat spring up all along his hairline. Why it makes his blood roar against his eardrums until he can't hear anything but the frantic babump-babump of his panicking heart. 

He hasn't kissed anyone since Gloria died. It's been nearly three years. And yes, that is part of it. The thought of Gloria no longer being the last person he kissed – the thought of _Young_ taking that position – certainly does something disquieting to his insides. But it's more than that. He's had trouble with touching, being touched, since her passing. But it has never interfered with his work, with his _life_ , as much as right now. 

He hadn't even noticed how he shied away from touch until almost ten months after Gloria's death, when a friendly pat on his shoulder had resulted in such a hard jerk away that an uncomfortable hush had fallen over the entire room. After that, he'd taken care to avoid similar situations, and he'd tried to get himself back to normal. To how he was before. He'd honestly thought he'd been getting better with the touching. He's gotten back to shaking hands upon introduction. He doesn't jump when people brush past him anymore. Sometimes he even initiates touch by tapping people on the shoulder to get their attention, although he doesn't think he could do that with anyone he doesn't know. Over the past six months things have been getting better. 

Except that apparently seeking out the occasional touch of his own accord does not mean that he's capable of doing it on demand. When it's actually necessary for him to do his job. And the shame and anger that that realization had awoken in him was aimed at himself, but he'd pointed all of it at Young. Which... even if he thinks the guy is a right pain in the arse, he doesn't deserve that. 

Fuck, he's going to have to apologize, isn't he? He's terrible at apologies. And the thought of having to face Young right now makes his stomach crawl. Because if he's honest with himself, he's pretty sure Young looked hurt for a second there, right before all his features closed off and he'd stormed out. Like Rush betrayed him or something, which, Rush is a little dumbfounded to discover, in a way he did. The rule of never crossing that line's been unspoken between them, but it has always been there. And he broke it. 

He sighs and pushes away from the desk before leaving the station to buy two cups of coffee from the vendor down the street. For cart coffee, it's not bad. Certainly better than the swill in the break room. When he gets back to the small office they'd been using to... to _practice_ , before everything went to shit, he finds Young inside, leaning against the desk. It saves him at least the indignity of having to ask him to come back here 'to talk', or having to apologize in public, and he wordlessly hands Young the cup of coffee. Two sugars, the way Young always drinks it. And huh, the fact that he knows that should probably tell him something. For how irritating he finds Young, he's certainly spent enough time watching the man, keeping track of his movements and his whereabouts, and he knows that to be true the other way around as well. They've been eyeing each other from the moment Young transferred in, and Rush is relatively sure that he is the only person at the station who knows about Johansen because he's the only one who'd been paying close enough attention to see the signs. It's entirely possible - highly probable, even - that he knows more about Young than he does about anyone else here. It's a strange realization that so much of his daily thoughts and actions seem to circle around Young, a man he can barely stand on the best of days.

Young accepts the coffee without saying anything, but doesn't make a move to drink it. Rush takes a deep breath. 

“I apologize,” he says quickly. He doesn't think he'll have to go into a long diatribe on what exactly he's apologizing for, or why he lashed out in the first place. The apology itself should be enough. He hopes.

Young regards him quietly, and Rush has to exact some effort not to squirm under that emotionless stare. Apparently his apology isn't good enough, because Young still hasn't said anything, still has that closed off look on his face, and fuck, Rush hates this. He feels embarrassed and clumsy and surprisingly guilty. Words pile up in the back of his throat helplessly, unstoppable. “This whole thing is not just frustrating to you, alright? Not only what we have to do, but the fact that I can't even— Well, it's aggravating. And when you told me to stop whining I just... Fuck. What I'm trying to say is that I know I went too far, and I shouldn't have said what I did. And I want to... I haven't—” with a quick snap of teeth he cuts himself off. “I'm sorry.” 

Young gives him another long stare, but Rush refuses to say anything more after that embarrassing babbling cascade. After a few excruciating seconds, Young dips his head a little in acknowledgment and takes a sip of his coffee. Rush feels like someone just took their hand off his windpipe. 

“Why are you...” Young says, before seeming to find a different way to ask his question. “Is it me? Are you scared of me?”

And Jesus, Rush is right back to wanting to hit him again. “No, obviously I'm not _scared_ of you, Young. Don't flatter yourself.” 

Young sets his shoulders back a little and puts his cup on the desk he's leaning against. “Then why do you flinch away every time I'm about to touch you?” 

“That's—It's... That's none of your fucking business.” 

“Right now I think it kind of is, Rush. If we can't do this – if _you_ can't do this – it's very much my business.”

Rush feels like hurling the remains of his coffee at Young, but even thrumming with panicky anger he can't deny that Young has a point. Taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself, he carefully puts his coffee down on one of the metal filing cabinets in the room. He can do this. He can be an adult about the situation. 

“...I haven't been comfortable with... with touch. Since Gloria,” he admits. It makes him feel vulnerable, like Young might laugh at him any moment now, like Young will use this against him, like Young will... 

Young surprises him by staying silent for a few long beats, and then accepting his explanation without making him answer a hundred questions about it. All he asks, when he finally speaks, is: “Alright. Would it be easier for you to touch me?” 

And yeah, Rush figures that it _would_ be easier to be the one to initiate the contact. To be the one in control, rather than to have to wait like a skittish colt as Young's blunt fingers keep coming closer and closer at a pace that is simultaneously too fucking fast and too excruciatingly slow. 

He nods at Young, and Young nods back, and then they're still again. On opposite sides of the tiny office, Young just waiting for Rush to take this at his own pace. Suddenly Rush doesn't know why he's always hated Young so much, because right now he really kind of appreciates the man's quiet acceptance. His patience. The look in his eyes that isn't pity, that might be genuine kindness. 

It's only three small steps to cross the distance between them, but they seem to go on for miles. Young watches him, doesn't pressure him to move faster, and Rush feels like this might be the first time he's actually _looked_ at Young. At the way his face expresses so little yet so much. At the way his hair seems like it might be soft and springy to the touch. At the width of his shoulders that implies strength and competence and being able protect things, to keep them safe. 

His heart is in his throat again as he reaches out his hand, fingers trembling a little, and settles it on the sleeve of Young's uniform, right in the crook of his elbow. He doesn't jerk away, doesn't even twitch, simply allows the warmth of Young's skin to slowly soak into his palm. When he looks up from his hand, he sees the small smile on Young's lips, and for once it doesn't look mocking or condescending. How has he never noticed Young's mouth before? Rush flicks his attention back to his hand and slides it up until it rests against the bulge of Young's bicep, squeezes a little before moving up towards his shoulder. 

“This okay?” Young asks, and Rush's gaze snaps back to his eyes. The air feels like it's crackling with electricity, and a strange, hair-thin thread of desire weaves its way through Rush's underbelly. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice inexplicably raspy, and lets his hand trail over the collar of Young's jacket, onto the skin of his neck. Christ, it's different when it's skin on skin, but he doesn't pull away. Doesn't _want_ to pull away. 

“This feels pretty convincing,” Young says when Rush's fingertips reach his jawline, and Rush can feel his throat move as he speaks. For a second Rush wonders what that'd feel like under his lips, under his tongue, and he _wants_. He wants to mouth at Young's neck, taste the hollow of his throat, nip at his chin and finally take those pillowy lips for himself. He _wants_ Young with a force that slams into him so hard it takes his breath away. He feels himself lean forward a little, closer, almost there, and then he realizes what he's doing and he freezes. He snatches his hand back, moment broken, and stares at Young with an open mouth. He'd been about to kiss Young, and he hadn't even been thinking about the job. Jesus Christ. 

Young looks not nearly as freaked out as he should, Rush thinks. Merely a little puzzled. 

“That seemed to go a lot better than what we were trying before,” Young remarks dryly. Rush wonders if he'd be so laid-back about it if he knew what Rush had just been thinking. “I think we can work with that, don't you?” 

Rush clears his throat and takes a small step back to make the distance between them a bit more appropriate for two colleagues. Two colleagues who are supposed to hate each other. “Yes, I think so.” 

Suddenly Young grins at him, and Rush doesn't think he's ever seen that expression on the man's face before. It's stunning. “The meet isn't until next Thursday, by that time I'm sure we'll have this whole couple thing down pat.”

It's an insane thought, but suddenly Rush is entirely convinced that Young might be right. He's going to touch Young, he's going to _kiss_ him, and he's going to convince everybody that they're doing that because they want to. Because they're together. 

“Well,” he says, suddenly feeling more lighthearted than he has in years. “I suppose if we want to be truly convincing, we'll need to practice some more, hm?”

Young makes an amused sound. He holds out his hand, palm up, and Rush hesitates for barely a second before sliding his own hand into it. They're holding hands and it isn't terrifying. It doesn't make him want to yank his arm back. His heart is racing, but not in an unpleasant way. His palms are sweating, but Young doesn't comment on it and it doesn't feel like cold sweat anymore. Young squeezes his palm lightly and something warm and fond curls through Rush's chest. 

Yeah, perhaps it'll turn out Greer was right after all, Rush thinks. He might even have fun.


End file.
